At the Mercy of the Pain and the Fear
by define-serenity
Summary: [zombie au] He can't lose Sebastian, not now, not after everything they've survived already. ONESHOT. COMPLETE.


**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**warnings: **grossness, blood, character deaths, ANGST (FOR WHICH I AM VERY VERY SORRY!)

**author's notes:** written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: **apocalypse**. inspired by a gruesome scene from The Walking Dead (focused around 3x01 & 3x02), because, hey, zombies make me giggle. thanks to my beta-fish **grapesofwraith**.

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**At the Mercy of the Pain and the Fear;;**

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Blaine's number one motto had always been 'be prepared'. It was never anything serious but applied to every aspect of his life, whether it was school or family stuff or real-life situations he'd never even considered. If he had a cold he packed enough tissues, he carried band-aids and disinfectant handy in a little kit, he packed a snack and a juice box in case of low blood sugar. Later, in med school, he knew to bring an extra pair of neoprenes, gum, and a notebook in case he needed it.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for this.

He'd been at the hospital when it started, when the first bodies rolled in maimed by what seemed animal bites, but there were too many at once. They set up a triage area outside to prioritize the most severe cases but the hospital was overrun in a matter of hours, patients coding in the hallways without sufficient staff on hand to help them.

And then the dead started rising.

People screamed, people turned on each other. People called it the end of days.

Sebastian found him at the hospital, begging him to leave it all behind, to think about himself for once, to go see their families and warn them, keep them safe if they had to.

But it was too late.

The army came too late.

The National Guard came too late.

Whatever was happening it spread faster than anyone could've anticipated, and it was happening everywhere.

The CDC told them to head for the big cities, that the army could protect them there. But heading for the cities was suicide.

Everyone in the city was dead within a week.

It was a month before the media shut down.

And nothing, absolutely nothing had prepared him for this.

.

"Run!" someone calls, he's not sure who, but it's become second nature by now, their fight-or-flight instinct adapted to the copious amounts of stress they've been under despite the fatigue and malnourishment. They all move as one, all run from the grunts and hisses of the walkers right around the corner.

"Wait," he hesitates, scanning the faces around him, that all too familiar disquiet shock travelling through his bones when he notices who's missing. "Where's Sebastian?" he asks, stress levels rising exponentially because Sebastian not taking the lead alongside Santana just doesn't happen. Ever.

A scream cascades down the walls of the all-but abandoned prison and his nerves snap. "Sebastian," he hushes, conditioned to keep his voice down but his feet moving without heeding the others' warnings. Sebastian's screams don't abate, they pierce right down to the heart of him, a new and strange panic chilling him to the bone.

He rounds the corner and finds Sebastian on the floor, mauling his axe into a walker's occipital lobe.

A walker that had left a very distinct and deep bite in the calve of Sebastian's leg.

"_No_," he breathes, frozen on the spot, bewildered by how his entire worldview has been pulled askew by a single wound when he's seen so much worse these past two years. But this, _the bite_, this is the end.

"Help me up," Sebastian groans, face contorted in pain. More walkers fill up the hallway, attracted to the fresh blood pouring from Sebastian's leg. "Get me out of here!" Sebastian shouts and he's shocked back to the cold hard reality that has becomes his life, always moving, always on the run.

"Shit," Sam curses, positioning himself between him and the walkers, taking out two with his machete. "Go!" Sam says, but he's already grabbed one of Sebastian's arms, Mike the other, while Santana and Puck flank them in defensive positions.

"In here!" Puck calls, leading them backwards into what seems to be one of the prison's cafeterias–Sebastian's leg leaves behind a foamy red trail for the walkers to follow.

Sebastian trashes in his arms, crying out in pain.

"Shut the door!"

"Hurry up!"

Sebastian's leg oozes blood, wound crawling with bacteria that before long will turn him into one of those dead things scratching at the doors. "No," he repeats and grapples for his belt, the tears that blur his vision only a reminder of what he refuses to lose. Not after everything they've watched die already. "You are not dying on me."

He pulls his belt free and ties it above Sebastian's knee, tightening it as hard as he can muster. Blood keeps spilling over the floor and if he hadn't seen so much of it already he might be repulsed, Sebastian's muscles and ligaments exposed to the bone. He needs to stop this, stop the bleeding, stop the infection from spreading without any use of medical supplies.

There's only one way he knows how.

"Give me your belt," he tells Mike, his orders followed without question; Mike strips off his belt and hands it over.

"Puck, I'm gonna need you to hold him down!" he calls, Puck settling by Sebastian's head seconds later.

He finds Sebastian's eyes through all the tears and pain, stroking a shaking hand through his boyfriend's hair. "Baby, I need you to bite down on this," he says, raising Mike's belt to Sebastian's face.

"Blaine, no." Sebastian shakes his head, but Puck's already locking his arms down. "No, there has to be another way!"

He sits back on his heels, reaching for the axe by his side. "It's the only way I know to keep you alive," he says, fingers tightening around the hilt, his heart beating out a rhythm he's grown too accustomed to.

Puck forces Sebastian's mouth open and places the belt inside, Sebastian's teeth digging into the leather, Mike holding him down at the waist.

He swallows hard, catching Sebastian's green eyes in between all the chaos and another part of him dies, another part of him that was good and decent and caring turns gruesomely unaffected by all the bloodshed and death around him, because it has to. That's how they survive.

"Whatever you're gonna do, Doc, do it now!" Santana yells.

The first strike hits Sebastian's tibia with a filthy wet pop, shattering the bone. Sebastian screams and fights his restraints, body convulsing on the floor.

He lashes out again, hard, the joint in his shoulder aching under all the pressure, but he has to see this through. At the third strike Sebastian passes out. He strikes again, and again, and again, losing count, until finally, thankfully, the axe hits the concrete floor, separating a piece of Sebastian's leg from the rest of his body.

His stomach's heavy with guilt and shock, but he peels his shirt off, running on automatic, years of training followed by years of improvising have prepared him for exactly this moment. He presses his shirt tight against Sebastian's wound, the fabric drenched in blood within seconds. "We have to get him out of here or he'll bleed out," he says, heart clenching around something still painfully alive. He won't lose Sebastian.

"Alright, let's move out," Santana says, taking control of the situation. Sam and Puck pull a meal cart free from some rubble and he's careful not to lose his grip once they pick Sebastian up from the floor. "There's only a handful of them out there. We stay in tight formation. We move as a team."

They all nod their understanding and soon they're pushing through the group of walkers outside the double doors, taking out a few of them, but this isn't about clearing the hallways anymore. Now it's about getting somewhere safe where he can take proper care of Sebastian and assess the damage he did.

They make their way into the prison block they'd secured a few hours ago–the doors all lock and there's no way walkers can get through the metal bars.

"What happened?" he hears Marley ask when they pass her, but no one answers. Quinn and Tina follow them inside one of the cells–all the cells have bunk beds and it's not ideal, but he's treated wounds in far grittier places.

"He got bitten," Tina gasps. "Does that mean he'll turn?"

He lifts Sebastian into the bottom bunk with Mike's help, bunching up what sheets he can find to put to Sebastian's leg.

"Get me sheets, towels, anything you can find."

"He's bleeding right through them."

"I see that!" The white sheets stain red with blood, already soaking into the mattress. "Find me more."

"I can start a fire," Mike says. "We can cauterize the wound."

"No, he'll go into shock. We have to keep pressure. Let it heal on its own." He wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand. "Get me some pillows!" he shouts to anyone who can hear–he closes his eyes as if that'll make his medical training clearer. They have to keep the leg elevated, stabilize him, keep the wound dressed.

He can make it through this.

He has to make it through this.

.

An hour goes by and the bleeding slows down. His arms are red up to his elbows, the blood dried and sticky on his skin, his fatigue reaching levels he hadn't previously thought possible. But he's not tired, it's the draining kind of fatigue that settles in your bones, that pulls you down to a dark and depressing place you don't want to acknowledge.

"Any change?" Santana asks, appearing in the entryway. She's getting too skinny, he thinks, even if it's a strange thought to have in that moment, but her hipbones protrude through her skin, the belt strapping the gun holster to her hip has seen too many extra notches punched through it. But the same could be said for any of them.

He pulls back a towel from Sebastian's wound and replaces it with another.

"The bleeding's stopped and he has no fever," he answers, the smallest glimmer of hope amongst all the shit they've endured. A sentiment always too short-lived. "But his pulse is too low and he still hasn't opened his eyes."

He sniffles, trying to control an onslaught of tears, unwilling to go down that road again. He'd done his crying, hours, days, weeks of it, he felt all of it for every single person he's lost, Sebastian's lost, _they've _lost, and he ran out. He didn't cry when they lost Dottie, she was one casualty too many, a hope they'd all felt too strong and had possibly affected them more than all the others. But now Sebastian, he never accounted for this. Despite all the loss and heartache, despite all the hope he learned to discount, he never believed he'd see Sebastian suffer. And it's left him lost and confused.

Sebastian's his rock, his anchor, his guiding light in a world that's turned perpetually dark. None of them would've made it this far if it wasn't for Sebastian, or Santana. Maybe that's why everyone's so quiet. Maybe that's why Santana's being so nice–her and Sebastian might've butted heads when he and Sebastian first joined their group, but they'd soon figured out things were easier if they worked together.

"Why don't you let me take over for a while?" Santana asks. "You look disgusting."

He looks down at his clothes, all stained with blood, and nods. Santana takes holds of the improvised bandages before he lets go, but his feet are glued to the floor. Sebastian's breathing comes short and ragged, much like Ryder's had after he got bitten. But there's no fever, he held on to that fact like it was a star in the night sky that would guide him home.

He gets cleaned up with some water the others brought in from the stream–the blood washes off too easily, it's a lie, a misconception that somehow things will be alright when they haven't been for almost two years. They've been running, and fighting, changing. _Dying_. All the blood has soaked underneath their skins and dried there, it's hardened them because that's life now. Survival. At all costs.

Sometimes he wishes it were his first time, that he could go back to the ER and be an intern again, because death there was somehow beautiful–it was still sad and painful, but it was less pointless than the death they know now. In this world there are things he can't fix, there are things science can't explain, grief is ugly and communal. And it's routine.

But not Sebastian, he won't be another dead body for them to bury, not after his parents and Cooper. Not like Brittany and Ryder and Jake. Not like those creatures outside clamoring at the fence for a bite of human flesh.

He dresses in a slightly cleaner outfit and heads back to the cells, reluctant to be away from Sebastian for much longer. When he gets there Quinn has settled on a stool by the bed to dress Sebastian's wounds, while Santana handcuffs him to the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"It's just in case."

His breathing deepens. "I got it in time."

"You can't know that," Santana says. "If he dies–"

His jaw clenches tight, hands balling into fists. "Don't say that."

"We'll have to kill him if he turns."

"Stop saying that!" he screams, and both women visibly startle–they're not used to seeing him lose control, he doesn't, not really. His time as a first year resident alone had tested him in stressful situations and the group had come to rely on him as their point of focus, one that never wavered. A lot of them called him Doc, not Blaine. But wherever there was Blaine, Sebastian wasn't far. And yet now the distance between him and Sebastian couldn't be greater.

"He'll be fine," he says. "And if you won't help then get the hell out."

Santana holds his gaze for a few seconds. "Fine," she says sharply, digging her index finger into his chest. "But if he turns you better step up."

He releases a shaky breath once he's sure Santana's gone; she speaks from a place of caring, because seeing Sebastian like this has to bring back memories of Brittany dying in her arms–she'd stayed with Brittany for hours, talked to her dead body, cried and screamed at all the injustice, and she'd watched the woman she loved return to life as something other, something primitive.

He can't imagine the strength it must've taken for Santana to pull that trigger–it's a strength he doubts he possesses.

"If he wakes up–" Quinn says.

"When he wakes up," Marley corrects, lingering just outside the cell.

"_When_ he wakes up," Quinn says, "He'll need some crutches."

"I'll see what we have." Marley smiles at him sympathetically and backs away; at eighteen she's the youngest of the group, and she can't always contribute, so whenever she sees the chance to pitch in she takes it. Quinn, on the other hand, has started going on runs too–Puck gave her some pointers and Mike showed her how to use a knife, much to Sam's dismay, who would prefer his girlfriend far from any danger.

But they'd been living on the edge all winter, moving from place to place, never staying long, hardly sleeping. And then Santana and Puck had spotted the prison–it looked as good a place as any to rest, stock up–after all, prisons were meant to keep things in by keeping things out too.

"Hey, man," Sam calls behind him. "We're gonna go look for food. Maybe see if there's an infirmary. Anything specific you need?"

"Antibiotics would be great. Painkillers, sterile gauze. Maybe some IVs? Anything can help, really."

"'Kay." Sam leans down and kisses Quinn. "We'll be back."

He sits down on another stool by the bed, but he and Quinn don't exchange a single word–Quinn grabs his hand when it starts shaking again, but he only has eye for Sebastian, who's pale as a ghost, struggling for air, slipping further and further away from him.

.

Sam returns with a limited amount of medical supplies, but they manage to wrap up Sebastian's leg with some sterile bandages–he almost buckles at the clean smell of the bandages, tears prickling behind his eyes when the sterile scent hits him and he dreams of a life long ago.

Maybe Quinn notices, maybe she sees him staring at Sebastian with tears in his eyes, but right after Marley and Tina come in to bring them some food she asks, "You never told us how you two met." Marley and Tina stick around because they're curious, or maybe they hope their company will somewhat calm him down. It's reassuring to know how much they care, but he really needs Sebastian.

"He came into the hospital as a patient."

He smiles through his tears, even though Sebastian had been in a great deal of pain all those years ago, but it's nice to remember they started somewhere normal, that they made their own choices and had memories free of all this darkness–there were times nostalgia for those memories nearly tore him in half, but he's grateful to have them all the same.

"He had uhm, appendicitis. I was in charge of prepping him for surgery."

He places a hand over Sebastian's heart, beating weakly. "He was high as a kite from the pain medication, but that didn't stop him from flirting with me all the way to the OR." He hiccups a laugh and his chest aches–they wasted so much time dancing around each other those first few weeks, how could they have been so stupid? But they didn't know, did they? They didn't know the world would end, that they should've been living every moment as if it was their last, because this, this isn't living.

They live in constant fear of being alive. And that's not much of a life at all.

"A week later there he was. That big grin and a bouquet of flowers. My beautiful idiot."

"It's hard to picture him like that," Tina says quietly.

"Yeah," he breathes, grateful that death and darkness haven't tainted any good memories. He hadn't taken Sebastian up on his offer, not the first time, not even the fourth time, but Sebastian had been persistent, and honest, and somehow he'd managed to find a way to his heart.

Sebastian's heart stops beating.

He blinks.

"Sebastian?" he asks stupidly, feeling his hand down Sebastian's chest but there are no signs of movement.

"What's wrong?" someone asks, words falling on deaf ears because he's kicked back into high gear right away.

"No, no, no, no, no," he chants and slides a hand underneath Sebastian's neck, one pushing at his forehead to tilt his head back, clearing his airways. He pries Sebastian's mouth open and pinches his nostrils to close them, breathing in deep to exhale hard into Sebastian's mouth.

"Oh my God," Marley cries.

He breathes into Sebastian's mouth four times like he was trained to do and pulls back to register any sign of change.

But Sebastian remains still.

"Baby, please," he pleads, as if that would help, and hunches over Sebastian again, repeating the whole process.

He pulls back and waits, body shaking frantic.

Sebastian doesn't move.

"Don't you dare die on me!" he shouts and slams a fist down on Sebastian's chest, hoping beyond all hope that his heart will react.

Sebastian gasps for air and something inside of him _snaps_, whatever part of him that had refused to buckle under the stress falls apart like a house of cards, every defense, every ounce of self control or propriety. He cries out and folds in half, sobs thrashing through his body while he clings to Sebastian. He can't lose Sebastian, not now, not like this. He's stronger with Sebastian, he'd never have made it this far without him. How is he supposed to go on?

He cries, and cries, and cries, barely registering how everyone clears the room to give him some space, his tears soaking into Sebastian's shirt. But tears wash out much easier, they're invisible, almost, if you didn't bother looking too hard, they're whatever's still soft inside him, loving and caring.

"Baby?" he chokes out, his ear pressed over Sebastian's heart, registering every single beat. "I need you to wake up now, okay?"

When this first started the only way he ever found sleep was in Sebastian's arms; it was the only time he didn't startle at every single sound, knowing Sebastian stayed awake to watch over him. Sebastian's strength gave him strength, his pep talks and the way he defended them against unwanted guests–it'd been the two of them alone for two weeks before they found the group and Sebastian had done everything in his power to keep them safe–he'd robbed stores and abandoned houses, he'd fought people, he'd found guns so they could defend themselves. He, in turn, had taken care of Sebastian's wounds, cuts and bruises, one more severe than the next.

"You've been fighting for a very long time and you're tired. But I need you to fight just a little while longer."

Sebastian simply has to open his eyes, that's all he needs right now, proof that his actions didn't lead to another kind of death–he'd never forgive himself if Sebastian didn't pull through, he's already turned into a shell of the man he once was, hollowed out, and without Sebastian there's no point in going on.

"Because we're all tired, baby, we're so tired and we need you."

He curls closer over Sebastian's body, index finger drawing nonsense patterns over his cheek and down his neck. "I need you, Sebastian," he whispers. "I know you're worried about changing, all this death and–"

He chokes back a sob. No, that won't be Sebastian–they've been struggling these past few months, their relationship straining under the tough choices Sebastian's had to make for the group; moving them along when all Santana wanted to do after Brittany's death was give up; put a bullet through Dottie's head when they discovered she'd been dead all along, taking with her their hope and their drive. But he'd been so strong this entire winter, for all of them, even if he turned a little colder–he had to close his heart to all their tears, all their pleas to stop.

"I need you to know that I'll always love you," he cries. "No matter what."

He hasn't said it in months, he hasn't really felt it all that time either, this world has numbed them, taken everything that was good and turned it to ashes, the cinders of their former lives distant memories and one they all lost the hope of ever returning to. His home was gone, all the home he had left lived inside Sebastian and he wasn't ready to be emptied out.

They should still be living every moment as if it was their last. Because now it could be true.

"I love you, Sebastian," he says, "and that's never going to change."

He breathes Sebastian in deep as if it's the last time he'll be able to, and he smells like dust and blood and sweat. But it's still his Sebastian.

"B?" the body beneath him croaks.

He shoots up, catching a glimpse of green. "You're awake," he breathes, wiping at his face.

Sebastian tries to rub his eyes, but finds his hand still cuffed to the bed. "What?" He gives the handcuffs a firm tug, before the realization of what happened flows over his face–he pulls himself up, but falls back into the pillow the moment he sees his leg missing. "No, no, no, no, no." Sebastian grabs the bed frame and pulls it, the entire bunk bed shaking.

"Baby, I'm sorry." Fresh tears touch his eyes as he puts both his hands on Sebastian's face. "I'm so sorry, it was the only way."

And maybe Sebastian had assumed he was a dead man walking, that soon he'd turn into a walker and one of them would be forced to put a bullet through his head, but he calms down, tears running from his temples into his hair. "So I'm–"

"You don't have a fever," he says, and mentally repeats it over and over again the same way he's been doing these past few hours. Sebastian's going to be okay.

Sebastian reaches up for his face, fingers curling into his hair. "You saved me."

He shakes his head, desperate to be the strong one this time, but he can't be–he came too close to losing the love of his life to be anything but overwhelmed and grateful that they got another chance. "I wasn't ready to lose you," he says, pressing their foreheads together, "I love you."

Sebastian releases a shaky breath. "I love you too, killer."

They stay like that for a good long while, Sebastian slowly but surely relaxing into the mattress again, reassured that he'll be okay, and whatever part of him that had kept under pressure unspools gradually.

"Look who's back in the land of the living," Santana's voice sounds behind him. He sits up to give Sebastian line of sight. "Knew you would," Santana adds. "Doc's been taking good care of you."

He frowns and turns, surprised to see Santana almost as choked up as he feels, tears in her eyes, but keeping a brave face. Santana tosses him the keys of the cuffs, before turning.

"Santana," he calls.

Santana glances at him over her shoulder.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Santana nods, staying true to her impenetrable stoic mask.

This world has cost them everything, their lives and their beliefs, their hope and sometimes even their love. But they'd be absolutely nowhere if they didn't have each other.

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**if you can, please let me know what you think!**


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